Page 9 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
I handed him the letters. “I showed these to Professor Levkin. He translated them for me. Volkov was Okhrana—the Tsar's secret police. And that if Anya has evidence against him, her life is in serious danger."
"This changes everything. If your missing dancer has proof of Volkov's activities . . .” He looked up at me. "Catherine, I need you to be very careful. Volkov isn't just some petty criminal. According to our intelligence, he's suspected of at least six murders since arriving in London."
"Six?" My voice came out as a whisper.
"All made to look like accidents or natural causes. But the pattern is clear—anyone who threatens to expose his network ends up dead." He reached across and took my hand. "Promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks."
"I promise. But Robert, there's something else." I told him about the black motorcar I'd spotted outside. "I think I'm already being watched."
His expression darkened. "From now on, you don't go anywhere alone. And if you see that car again, you contact me immediately." He moved to the window which faced the VictoriaEmbankment and peered through the blinds. "It's not there now, but that doesn't mean anything."
"What more can you tell me about the network?"
"We know they use the Russian Orthodox Church on Ennismore Gardens as a meeting place. Not for religious purposes, but cover for their activities. We also suspect they have contacts within the émigré community who feed them information about potential targets."
"Has anyone tried to infiltrate them?"
"Too dangerous. These men are trained killers, Catherine. They trust no one outside their immediate circle." He returned to his seat. "But if your missing dancer is Volkov's niece, she might be our best chance of getting inside information."
"Assuming she's still alive."
"Assuming that, yes." He was quiet for a moment.
I held out my hand. “I’ll take the letters back now.”
He didn’t move. “They’re evidence, Catherine.”
“You’re right—they are.” I hesitated. “But I have to return them to the place I found them. If Anya hid these as insurance, she may come back for them. I’ve taken photographs—every page, front and back.”
He studied me, clearly unhappy, but after a beat he handed them over. “Very well. But I still don’t like it.”
I tucked the letters into my handbag. “Neither do I. But if there’s even a chance Anya returns, we need to make sure she finds things just as she left them.”
He gave a short nod, but his expression remained troubled. “There’s one more thing. We’ve had reports that Volkov has been asking questions about booking agents and shipping companies. If your dancer is planning to flee the country . . .”
"She might not have much time left." I stood abruptly. "I need to speak with her landlady immediately. Every hour we delay could mean the difference between finding her alive or?—"
“Not by yourself. You’ll have a police escort.”
“Her landlady might have crucial information about where Anya was planning to go, who she was afraid of. A police officer might make her nervous, stop her from talking freely. As much as I appreciate the offer, I have to do this on my own.”
Robert’s jaw tensed. “This is exactly the kind of unnecessary risk I was talking about."
His face was thunderous as I moved toward the door. "It's not unnecessary if it saves her life. I'll stay in public areas, check in with you every two hours. If I see anything suspicious, I'll contact you immediately." I paused at the door. "Robert, we both know time is running out. Every moment we spend arguing is a moment Volkov gets closer to finding her."
He stared at me for a long moment, clearly torn between his professional instincts and the urgency of the situation. Finally, he glanced at the clock on the wall. "Two hours, Catherine. Not a minute longer. And promise me—no heroics, no following leads alone if they seem dangerous."
"I promise." I moved back to kiss his cheek. "We'll find her, Robert. We have to."
"I don't like this," he muttered, but I saw the resignation in his eyes.
---
After leaving Scotland Yard—and confirming that the black motorcar was nowhere to be seen—I took a cab to Anya's lodgings in Bloomsbury. The modest boarding house stood in a row of similar Georgian buildings, their once-grand facades now showing signs of genteel poverty.
Mrs. Whitmore, the landlady, was a thin, sharp-eyed woman who clearly prided herself on knowing everything about hertenants. She invited me into her cramped parlor, where antimacassars protected every surface and the smell of boiled cabbage lingered in the air.
"Poor Miss Petrova," she said, settling her considerable bulk into a worn armchair. "Such a quiet, polite young lady. Never any trouble, always paid her rent on time. I do hope nothing dreadful has happened to her."
